Burning the Heart Out
by WafflerWrites
Summary: Trust is a rare thing for Sherlock Holmes, and Moriarty loves to interfere. John's missing, and Sherlock is not amused, to say the least. One-Shot


_I didn't realize how poetic and cryptic this was until I read it over. It's an extremely short chapter (or you could think of it as an introduction), yet a decent beginning of a new book. Sorry to the followers of my other stories, but yes, this is me procrastinating._

 ** _Introduction_**

You were now a traitor. Your faithfulness forcefully shoved down your throat. You tongue felt swollen, knotting up the words that dried on your lips. Something ominous within your stomach clenched, a serpent constricting your organs. Nasty and cold and vicious.

Dark beady eyes. Sharp like a scalpel, slicing your choppy thoughts and gathering them one by one. Those eyes gleamed of insanity, yet no light escaped them. Those eyes were an oblivion— a black hole— absorbing your secrets and wishes. Trapping the lost, the vain, and the vulnerable.

You didn't respond, pulling at your wrists pointlessly, the restrictions burrowing and biting at your raw skin. Your fists flapped clumsily, wiggling and squirming. Shoulders pivoted, elbows yanked, but you were well bound.

Those soulless eyes cackled without a sound, without movement, at your miserable endeavors. A criminal grin, psychopathic, wicked, and knowing. "Betrayal is such a fragile thing, agree?" The oblivion purred.

 ** _Chapter 1_**

Your mind was a tangled wreckage, terror tensing your muscles to the point of spasms. You limped— almost crept— forcing yourself to push past the agony. To beat the dots sprinkling your vision. You couldn't shout, only croaking out sobs and coughs. You held your sprained wrist to your chest, cradling it's soaked sleeves. Your hair was in tangles, where fists had curled around your locks and wrenching it when you'd been uncooperative.

You mostly leaned on the creaky door handle as you opened it, lugging yourself inside before you collapsed against the doorframe, groaning lowly. Nauseated, you felt a familiar contracting of your gut.

You had no more than two seconds of rest before a bush of raven hair sped at you, slamming you against the hard metal door. "Where is John?" He snarled in outrage, baring his teeth. "Where. Is. John?!" Sherlock roared in your face, your hair shuddering at the wind and force of his demand and bellowing. His bony fingers dug into your shoulders, drawing blood from your recent wounds through your jacket. He hammered you against the door again, which gave a thundering echo throughout the flat. Sherlock was seething, your treachery blinding his vision with a furious red. To him, only a coward stood at his entryway.

A sob you had been smothering hissed out of your clenched teeth. Hot tears made tracks down your face, saltily stinging your tongue. You didn't struggle as the furious detective pinned you and pressed your hurting cuts. You squeezed your eyes, unable to look at his broken demeanor. He knew what you had done, and he would never forgive you. You had given in to the side of the devil. "Moriarty." You wailed between sobs, biting your knuckles, hoping to end your helpless crying as you nearly hyperventilated. Your were compelled to ball up on the ground. "It's all my fault. I let this happen. He has John. I did this to John."

You winced violently as your ribs panged, nauseated. Your ears rushed with blood, pounding. Your eyes rolled back, a flash of white blinding you, while your knees buckled.

You were startled awake to find hands at your shoulders, propping you up, inspecting. Cheekbones filled your vision. Those silvery eyes, crisp and piercing, never in the same place twice. Somehow, you'd teleported from the doorway to the living room. He grasped a numb arm, the sleeve falling to revealing lacerations and a cracked wrist. His palms found your back— whipped, uneven skin meeting his touch. He pursed his lips, anger depleting to defeat. Your weak knees were bent with the support of Sherlock, lowering you to the couch.

Sherlock's baritone muttered, "They beat you." His intense gaze never lessened, however scrunched as if he was ashamed of himself. His scrutiny met the floor, his expression dark, a hidden fury within it— yet no longer aimed at you. "I should have seen it." A grimace. "I always see it."

You merely breathed, cracked ribs digging into you like claws. You didn't glare, only stared detachedly. A wheeze passing your lips only added to his concern— an unguarded worry. You were as close a companion to Sherlock as John was, and the mere idea of your betrayal had sent him spiralling. He'd known you'd shared the the whereabouts of John Watson, but oblivious that they'd tortured you for it. God, he was the consulting detective!

Sherlock frowned, "What is so important that even Moriarty cannot grasp?" Perplexity hinted through his hyper fingers tapping rapidly against his knee. "...that you can?" His pale face was unnaturally blanched to the color of paper, his mop of ebony hair only contrasting. His neck swiveled to you, a sharp inhale, but not followed by an exhale. Sobering, he pinched his mouth, "I am sorry." An unknown emotion stirred in those colorful eyes, "I.. called an ambulance."

With that, he stood. Sherlock paced about, collecting items necessary for treating wounds. When he returned, he began bandaging the worst and cleansing your bruised skin thoughtfully.

You swallowed thickly, almost tasting Sherlock's guilt in the air. "I hid it." You inform, "It was all under my jacket. And it was dark where we were standing." You flinched simply at the memory.

At your comment, Sherlock stood, his eyes wide in realization. "Betrayal." He laughs, tapping his foot giddily, gesturing at the air with his hands. "It's always a game to Moriarty. He favors manipulation. He'd kidnapped you— forced you to partake in revealing data as to where John had been. Once your will had broken after immoral interrogation, they likely abandoned you, taking your phone so you had no ways of communication. You'd trudged home, on a mildly frigid day that required a jacket for heat preservation. They knew this, only placing scars on the hidden areas; example— your back and arms." He rambled swiftly, dropping everything he'd been doing. "In my..." He cleared his throat. "Informal fit of blindness, I'd managed to inflict continued damage to your already scarred tissue. I apologize for such. But you must admit it's clever; he endorses in attacking us from the inside out."

You blinked, processing his rapid fire explanation. "But he had to know you'd eventually come to realize my wounds. I mean, you're Sherlock." You murmured, head pounding with a new headache.

Sherlock rolled his eyes fondly, "Obviously. Are you only now grasping this? It's all about the play of emotions. It was petty proof I'm not a sociopath." He informed, curling a lip in disgust. "But he has given us clues an infant could follow. When they demanded John's location, they no reason for it. They could have easily stolen him from his usual routes; John is a simple man. Yet they needed it from you, of all people? Doubtful." Sherlock shook his curls as he whipped his head about, as if expecting applause from a crowd at his ingenious discovery. Or.. perhaps he expected John. "No, this is all an illusion. A genius stew of sentiment to fool us into tracking him down. But of course—" He grinned wryly. "That's why they've taken your phone."

At the sound of wailing sirens, Sherlock perked up his head, a tight expression painting his features. "This is your ride, then." He sighed, standing as paramedics sprinted in to handle your half conscious form.

There was a disorder of words, however your ears slurred like you were underwater. The sound of Sherlock's baritone was still distinguishable. Dazed, your eyes slipped shut, only to heavily open again. This time, there was a chill of outside air nipping at your broken skin. The world obscured around you, just concentrating on the a shadow of a man playing the violin. Once you inhaled into a mask of medical air, that blurred away too.


End file.
